Luna's Arrow
by Rosslyn
Summary: Of all the things Reese thought they would do once the initial awkwardness had faded away, he never thought they would be here, in a supermarket, shopping for food.


_Finch/Reese, explicit (though no graphic descriptions) towards the end, no like, no read!_

_The parameter for this fic is an established relationship of sorts, so much less awkwardness, and much more shenanigans and unrepentant fluff. Hope you enjoy._

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**Luna's Arrow**

Of all the things Reese thought they would do once the initial awkwardness had faded away, he never thought they would be here, in a supermarket, shopping for food.

"I thought you did everything online," he says, mildly amused when Finch suggested it.

"I can't have food online," Finch replies with a wry look. "I know you think I live in the cloud, but even the best AI needs a little fuel now or then."

Reese grins, and they go to a large supermarket ten blocks away. Finch hums and walks through the isles slowly, glancing here and there. He inspects the fruit and vegetable section with a sense of academic rigour that is usually reserved for the firewall of the Pentagon, and their shopping cart only gains two tomatoes by the end of it. Reese is infinitely amused.

"Here," he murmurs, picking up a random good nearest to him,"Have this cucumber. Still thorny."

Finch peers at him and says nothing; he runs his hands down the cucumber. "It is quite fresh," he says. "But I don't quite need it for the menu."

"You are hoping to cook?" Reese says, a little surprised, "Tonight?"

"In the foreseeable future, yes," Finch replies, nonchalant. "Will you help me pick out some spring onions?"

Reese doesn't really know how one picks out spring onions other than just pick them up, but he tries anyway. "What are you going to make?" He asks, curious.

Finch doesn't look up from his industry standard inspection of green peppers. "I don't know," he says, "What do you want to have?"

Reese pauses, and his eyebrows arch uncontrollably. "You are cooking for me?" He says, automatically leaning towards the shelf and putting on a sultry purr, old habits and that. Finch isn't the least bit ruffled.

"There's quite no need for that, Mr. Reese," he says with a wry glance. "I do have a trick or two up my sleeves. Try me," he says with a smirk. "Beyond the usual steak, burger or pasta."

Intrigued, Reese straightens. "Alright," he says, rattling his mind for the most ridiculous combination of food he's ever had while he worked for the CIA. "Salmon, duck and ham salad."

Finch actually laughs. "You had that where?"

"Formal hall in Cambridge," Reese answers. "Undercover as a member of the Apostles."

Finch studies him for a while. "Alright," he says, finally. "In this case, we need some cambozola."

Reese refrains from asking what cambozola is, until they reach the diary section and he discovers it is a type of cheese he most likely have had before, but didn't bother to remember the name of. Finch sniffs and studies each block with intense scrutiny, and finally picks out one that he is satisfied with.

"Some prawns too, I should think," Finch murmurs, as they move towards the seafood section. "Does that mean you can support a British accent, Mr. Reese?"

Reese casts a wayward, sly glance. "Crikey, mate, are you really cooking up a grub for me? Well I'm just chuffed to bits."

The corner of Finch's mouth twitch. "Very impressive, Mr. Reese."

"They didn't peg me for the aristocratic type," Reese says. "I was always instructed to play cockney."

"More difficult, I should imagine."

"It's the omitted 't's," Reese says as they start shuffling to the next isle. "Pickles, too, Finch?"

"Don't question the chef now," Finch replies. "Kindly hand me that jar from the top."

Reese does, and their fingers brush when he hands it over. Finch glances at him, and Reese doesn't try to contain the smile that floats to his lips.

"What salad would you like?" Finch asks, smiling a little too. "Sweet pea? Watercress? Iceberg would be a poor choice, by the way."

Reese shakes his head. "You are the chef," he says, eyebrows arching elegantly again.

Finch gives him a look and stalks towards the salad section, Reese following thoughtfully with the cart.

"Say, Finch," he asks after a while, "What else did my file say about my language skills?"

"That you can converse in five languages and read in another three," Finch replies. "Your Spanish was particularly impressive, but I must admit, I was a little surprised that you don't speak French."

"Hmm. And it never strikes you as odd?" Reese says, leaning close into Finch's personal space. Finch doesn't back away, but raises his eyes thoughtfully. Reese is smirking at him, a playful, triumphant glimmer in his eyes, and Finch's face go blank; Reese smiles wider and his voice drops to a purr. "_Laisse-moi te confier un secret..._"

Finch's eyes widens. "Of course," he says, "They left it out of the file so that it would alter expectations..." he trails off before looking up again, dubiously. "Did it ever _work_?"

"Not everyone are paranoid super geniuses," Reese says, shrugging. "I always walked around the French consulate with people assuming I'm deaf."

It takes him a full second to realise Finch is still staring at him with a highly sceptical look. "What?" Reese asks, innocently, "Don't trust me with my skills, or the lack thereof?"

"Mr. Reese," Finch says, edging impossibly closer to him, "You asked me to read the original The Count of Monte Cristo to you a while back, when you were sick. You told me you didn't understand a word of it!"

Suddenly Reese looks sheepish. "Oh," he says, meekly. "That."

He had been down with the man flu, as Carter so mirthfully put it, and bored out of his mind; it was a miraculously slow week and he was put on strict orders to be bed bound. Going slowly crazy while Finch calmly worked on some house keeping tasks, Reese had requested Finch read to him, and after a brief argument about the respective merits of French literature and Russian literature, Finch chose the Dumas novel with a thoughtful look. He had requested the original; mesmerised by Finch's pronunciation, watching the words roll off his tongue, and half way through the book, he realised Finch was add his own comments about the characters and plot. He never told Finch that he spoke the language, in fear that Finch would stop offering his own reflection, for these reflections revealed more about Finch than the characters in the book. Reese had kept silent then - he thinks it's best to keep silent now.

"You did make me feel a lot better," He tries with a lopsided grin.

Finch huffs. "Never again, Mr. Reese," he murmurs.

"Come now, Finch," Reese says, "You know I like your voice."

Finch gives him a startled, wayward glance before quickly composing himself. He clears his throat. "I see."

Reese smirks.

"Next time I shall read you something in Latin," Finch says, matter-of-factly. "Or Ancient Greek. Your choice."

"There is not a straight sentence in these books and you know it," Reese says. "What is it with your love for long sentences and words with more than four syllables?"

Finch eyes him. "Have you ever heard of Soseki Natsume, Mr. Reese?" He asks inconsequentially.

Reese frowns. "The Japanese writer?"

"The foremost novelist of the Menji period," Finch says, serenely. "It is said that he once asked his students how to say 'I love you' in Japanese, and one of them replied, well, you just say I love you."

Reese is bewildered. "Okay," he says, slowly, eyeing Finch with a vague alarm. "Well, Mr. Natsume disapproved," Finch continues, not the least bit deterred. "He said, 'No Japanese would say something as blunt as this. We simply say, "It's a beautiful moon tonight."'" Finch ends the story with a pointed look, and Reese is suddenly embarrassed.

"OK Finch, you've made your point." Reese absently scratches his nose while scanning the cart, feeling slightly inadequate. "You have everything? Let's go."

"Go?"Finch repeats, arching an eyebrow, "The salad is just an entree, Mr. Reese. We haven't decided on the mains yet."

Reese makes a noise that is halfway between a groan and a hiccup. "I'm out of ideas," he says. "Surprise me."

"I fully intend to," Finch says, wry. "I'm thinking... langoustine."

"Okay," Reese says. "Now you are just being deliberate."

"No Mr. Reese," Finch replies cooly, "I assure you I am not. Langoustine, the Nephrops norvegicus -"

"Must I apologise for the French incident?"

"- Otherwise known as the Dublin Bay prawn, or more simply," Finch continues, completely unflustered, "Scampi."

This time, Reese does groan. "Can we just get takeout and be done with it?"

Finch gives him a look. "Such luck of finesse," he says, though the small smile is back. "You will not regret it, Mr. Reese."

"Wanna bet?" Reese mutters under his breath, but follows him anyay.

In the end, Reese is surprised by how comprehensive the stock of a large supermarket is - especially when it is fine enough to tailor to Finch's taste and needs. Then again, it has been woefully long since he has been in a supermarket, least of all for the explicit purpose of shopping. They check out a whooping five hundred dollar worth of foodstuffs, and Reese struggles to pack everything into portable bags while Finch limps over to the customer comments desk.

"Really, Finch?" Reese mutters as he struggles to balance the bags. "How typical a customer are you, do you think?"

Finch calmly finishes his signature of Harold Heron with a flourish and doesn't even bother looking up. "Have you ever heard of the Mystery Shopper, Mr. Reese?"

Reese frowns, then he has an epiphany. "You own this chain," he marvels, dropping his voice low, "Of course you do."

"Hmmm." Finch gives him another look and puts the comment card in the box with a careful tuck. "I don't know where you get your ideas from..."

Reese grins, and despite his best efforts, Finch smiles too.

"Let me lighten your load," Finch says. "I can still carry a few bags."

Reese doesn't let him, of course, instead he protrudes his hips sidewards. "Just get the key from the pocket and start the car, will you?"

To his mild surprise, Finch doesn't argue with either the task or the necessity to stick his hands in Reese's pockets.

"If you insist," Finch says after the key is found. "Careful not to spill the sauce now. I'll wait for you in the parking lot."

Reese watches him limp away and feels a pang in his chest, and it's not something he's used to, not regret or sorrow, but lighter, something else entirely. It takes him a few seconds to realise he is feeling - normal, like this is just another shopping trip and he is in an ordinary relationship, and someone just promised to cook him dinner - okay, ridiculously expensive and fussy dinner, but a dinner nonetheless - which is the greatest amount of normality he has had in years. He balances the bags again, shifting the weight on his feet, smiling despite himself, and follows on outside.

The man that is responsible for this sudden swell of fondness in his chest is standing near some bushes, three slots away from their car, and Reese suppresses an inexplicable need to call out. He quickens his pace, and that is when he sees the shadows. Three, no, four figures are circling Finch, two with knives and one with a baseball bat - a mugging; because honestly, what would John Reese's life be, if he could just go to a supermarket without running into some form of violence?

Reese sighs, and puts down the bags carefully so the bottles don't shatter. They are within earshot of each other now, and Finch is saying something, maddeningly patronising and composed at the same time -

"I would really not," Finch says, "Attempted mugging is one thing to appear on your juvie file, attempted murder is something else entirely."

"Attempted?" One of the muggers repeat thickly, and Reese almost laughs. He steps behind Finch just close enough to be protective and menacing at the same time.

"Hullo, fellas," he says cheerfully, "I would really take his advice if I were you."

The muggers look at each other uncertainly, and one of them does a clearly visible tip of the head, and Finch sighs again.

"Try to spare their kneecaps," Finch says. "They are just kids. Misguided kids, but kids nonetheless."

By the time Finch finishes, Reese finishes too; he dislocates the mugger's shoulders instead. It was laughably easy and Reese almost feels sorry for them, so he doesn't even try to pursue when they scramble away in a pathetic, panicked flurry.

"All's well that ends well," Finch says mildly. Reese hums in response, feeling a bubble of contentment rise to his chest, which is really rather ludicrous; but then Finch looks at him, and even in the darkened parking lot he can tell Finch knows, because Finch is smiling.

They make their way back to Reese's loft, where Finch has recently stocked with 'proper' cookware; the dinner takes an hour and half to make, and another hour to enjoy. Finch opens a bottle of the good wine, which must have an unexpected kick because when the bottle empties, Reese feels a little giddy.

"You are right," he says, drawing out the syllables a little, "I don't regret this one bit."

Finch smiles at him again, indulgently, and Reese thinks this is the most happy - _the happiest_ - he has ever felt in his life. Then Finch says, "Well I'm glad," and Reese realises he must have said it out loud.

"I'm not very good a spy right now," he says, flabbergasted. "I'm usually better than this at keeping secrets."

Miraculously, Finch laughs. "What makes you think it's a secret?" he says.

Reese thinks about this hard and over, and finds himself unable to come up with answer. Finch watches him intently, beaming, his fingers twirling the glass idly; and Reese feels another inexplicable urge. He sets down his own glass and leans over.

"I do have some secrets left in me, you know," he drawls, voice dropping low to a sultry purr. Finch starts a little, surprised; then the tips of his ear starts to burn.

"Oh," Finch says. "Well, I suppose."

"Mmmhmm," Reese says, nudging Finch's forehead with his own, a smile ghosting over his lips, "Maybe I can add to your file..."

The corner of Finch's lips twitch, and he looks up, eyes bright and warm. Their breaths intertwines, almost touching; and Reese flutters his eyes close, wanting to engrave this moment, just this moment, for its simplicity and perfection.

"Do go on," Finch whispers, and he kisses him; a slow, intimate kiss, where lips exchange words and every touch is a story; and Reese lets his hand run free in Finch's hair, letting the short strands bite at his fingertips.

They edge towards the bed with a definitive lack of grace, and Reese might have laughed if he wasn't so intent on keeping Finch from making any similar comments, but they get there anyway, and the how doesn't quite matter. He tugs at Finch's shirt, rubs at the small territory of skin that is exposed under the collar and kisses every inch, agile hands working at removing the trousers; Finch says nothing but his chest rapidly rises and falls, and Reese looks up to find him quietly laughing.

"What," Reese says, perplexed. He doesn't stop what he's doing, and hands are trailing on Finch's thigh now, warm and satisfying, raising goosebumps as they go. Finch doesn't answer straightaway, instead he pulls Reese close and undoes the buttons to Reese's shirt with dedicated attention, and Reese watches; each finger working with precision and a level of composure that his breathing does not warrant.

In the end Finch says, "Amongst us, you are clearly the multitasker,"and it turns out to be Finch's idea of a bedroom joke, which Reese finds inexcusably bad and hilarious at the same time. He is still beaming like an idiot when Finch finishes with his shirt and trousers, and nearly yelps when Finch drags his fingers deliberately over his nipples.

"I believe," Finch says innocently, eyes darkened and lips curving into an impossibly devious smile, "You had a point to make?"

He does; Reese ends up doing a million things at once just to prove that he can, and Finch looks torturously torn between being impressed and being amused. Reese thinks this must be the most fun he has ever had during sex, in a half innocent sort of way, because he grins so hard that his facial muscles ache before they even got to the good part.

In the end, Finch enters him with practiced ease and renewed passion, and Reese still doesn't stop multitasking - all the nerves burn away at the flurry of touches, kisses and friction, and Finch's expression goes slightly slack, like he's watching something wondrous, so wondrous that he forgets himself, and Reese does too; he comes before he really means to and Finch joins him shortly afterwards, and it's just one more thing to grin about, so he does.

After a few moments, Reese drapes his arm around Finch's chest, and edges closer. "How's your data collection coming?" He asks, with a suggestive murmur, and Finch makes a noise between a cough and a laugh.

"Do refrain from using bad puns, will you?" Finch says, but his relaxed voice lacks the usual conviction, and Reese smirks.

"There is one more entry I haven't made yet," he says.

"Oh?"

"My refractory period," Reese says, with more cheek than he had intended, and Finch breathes a shallow laugh of a sigh. He kisses him again, slow, relaxed, full of contentment and appreciation; Finch responding leisurely while lightly caressing his back, fingers stroking every inch of skin with aching tenderness.

They end up proving Reese's exemplary refractory period, and Reese enters Finch with languid affection; Finch watches him with soft, darkened eyes that spoke without words, and Reese kisses them each and every time in turn, tasting the warmth and fondness, while giving his own. It was slow and unhurried, familiar and comfortable, and in the end they still both climax, and Reese pointedly looks at Finch with an expression that says 'one more entry for you'. Finch smiles that small smile of his, and they kiss again.

Afterwards, they roll to the window side of the bed that isn't splattered with the evidence of their enjoyment, too tired to move just yet, and Reese drapes an arm on Finch's chest. The curtains are pulled back just a little, a glimmer of moonshine steals through, and in the darkened room it swathes a line of illumination on their chests, where the heart beats together, Luna's arrow.

Reese stares at the pale light for a few moments, then huffs a tiny laugh and presses a kiss to Finch's forehead. Finch opens an eye and looks at him sleepily, his face inquisitive. Reese indicates towards the window.

"It really is a beautiful moon tonight," Reese says, smiling.

Finch blinks and closes his eyes again, smiling back; his sleep fuddled features soften impossibly more, a decade younger. "It really is," he replies, finding Reese's fingers and intertwining them.

**END**


End file.
